A Stylish Blackmail
by Addicts Inc
Summary: Blackmail was an art. An art for the sadistic and greedy, yes, but an art none the less. It required careful thought, planning and execution. Lord Voldemort looked at the muggle, his prisoner, and thought...perhaps he would send it's wife a present.


**A Stylish Blackmail**

Lord Voldemort observed.

He sat behind his desk, his dark robe flowing off the chair and swirling into pools at his feet. He was half hidden in the shadows, but the light let in by the single window illuminated the man standing in the middle of the room. Lord Voldemort had ordered that his private study be on the north side of Malfoy Manor, where his Head Quarters were currently situated. The tall, thin window over looked the forest that was the only portion of the Malfoy grounds left untamed.

The weak pre-dawn light fell upon a pale, trembling man. He didn't know where he was. He had been asleep next to his wife when he was woken by several loud bangs. He had sat up in fright to see six people in dark robes and white masks surrounding their bed. His wife was still fast asleep, even when he tried to wake her she just grumbled and rolled over. The intruders seemed to find that funny.

He had reached for his mobile, but before he had even touched it there was aloud bang, and his hands were tied in his lap with strong thin ropes. These people were part of his wife's world, clearly. The world where people could travel through fire places, and flew on brooms. He was in trouble. Only his wife could help him here, and she was fast asleep.

Why he was here, in this dark room was beyond him. He just wanted to know if his wife was all right. The pale man sitting a few meters in front of him was tilting his head slowly from side to side, always holding eye contact; like a snake. Between long pale fingers he turned what the man recognised as a 'wand'. "Excuse, excuse me sir?" He stammered. He knew he didn't stand a chance. He was entirely at his captor's mercy.

"You wish to speak, Mr Jones?" Lord Voldemort asked politely. "Let it never be said that the Dark Lord is inconsiderate to his guests."

"Thank you, s- sir." Mr Jones said. For the first time in his life, he wished that he could do that trick of his wife's when she disappeared into thin air. "I just wanted to know, to know, how my wife is. Sir."

Lord Voldemort smiled. "Your wife, Mr Jones? Hestia is sound asleep in your bed. Right now she is having a wonderful dream." The Dark Lord gave a modest sort of smile. "We like to make the separation process of our guests as easy as possible."

"Sep-paration process, sir?" Mr Jones was shaking so much. He was surprised the other man hadn't heard his teeth chattering.

"_Per Nefer Tet_!" Lord Voldemort said lazily, waving his wand languorously towards Mr Jones.

Mr Jones made no sound as the invisible knives sliced through his pathetic muggle body. The six pieces hung there, suspended in the air, as Lord Voldemort watched. Then they fell to the floor.

Lord Voldemort pushed himself up off his chair and walked slowly towards the body, his long strides reverberating around the room. He crouched down and considered the effects of his spell. An ancient spell, that he had chanced upon whist researching ways to instil fear into that foolish adversary of his, that irritating little Harry Potter. The body of Mr Jones lay in a heap.

Lord Voldemort made some graceful gestures with his wand, and the pieces began to move around, as though partaking in some elaborate dance. Then they settled again, this time in their correct positions. The wounds where the knives had struck were impeccably neat, there was no blood loss; the veins and arteries had been seared and sealed the moment of dissection. Six pieces, for six different destinations. The head, the left arm, the left leg, the right arm, the right leg and the torso. But the head Lord Voldemort would keep. Not for sentimental purposes, of course. But for elegance.

He had targeted Mr Jones with precision. Mr Jones, the muggle husband of that foolish looter, Hestia Jones, prominent member of that Order of the Phoenix. Lord Voldemort would send one piece of the body to a different recipient, without the head it would make the identification process more difficult. Though it would take barely minutes after all six pieces had been discovered for the identification to be complete.

But sending the head was just too brash and casual. Lord Voldemort liked to put thought and class into his threats. And the threat was clear. This was what happens to your loved ones. This is what will happen if you defy me. And look, I did it all while the great Hestia Jones lay sleeping next to him.

Another elegant wave of the wand and cardboard boxes folded up around each of the six sections of Mr Jones. Then a ball of string came winding its way across the dark wooden floor and neatly cut it's self into six different lengths that tied each of the packages up with a pleasing bow. Then the quill on the desk dipped itself in the inkwell and flew cover to the packages, where it proceeded to write six different addresses in an ornate old-fashioned font.

Lord Voldemort pressed his fingertips together. Then he sighed and shook his head. Mr Jones' head was banished to the wooden chest in the corner of the room. Without the head he only had five parcels. He needed six. Cut off one of the hands? A foot? How about a finger, send that one to the irritating mongrel, Remus Lupin. Of course not, how could he be so silly? That would ruin the perfect symmetry of the corpse. That wouldn't do. No, he would have to commit himself to the only option he had ever really considered. But how to remove the heart?

He could cut open the thorax; make it appear so very cold and clinical. Or he could blast the chest open; vicious and inhuman? Perhaps he could emulate the Ancient Egyptian Embalmers, and remove it through a small incision in the abdomen; neat and understated?

If he had a free choice, Lord Voldemort would prefer to remove the heart with no visible entrance or exit wounds on the torso, giving no indication that it had been removed at all. It would appear unnerving, and oh so much more threatening. But could it be done?

The light from the lone window was getting stronger. The sun would soon be fully risen. Lord Voldemort hung his head, he had little time. He could try and summon the heart, or he could try the more difficult but undoubtedly more stylish vaporisation and condensation of the organ. However, that ran the risk that the vaporised molecules would be dispersed too far before he had a chance to force them back into a whole. He cut the string around the parcel containing the torso, and the box fell open. Who was he kidding? Lord Voldemort had always been about understated style.

The Dark Lord called to the Death Eater waiting outside the study. "Bring me Diodorus Siculus." The door closed quietly again and Lord Voldemort observed the body. No more than two minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and a slight, weedy looking man entered, carrying a large black bag. Lord Voldemort didn't look up from his crouching position over the parcels and the open package of the torso.

"Death Eater Siculus," He said calmly, "the heart is to be removed from this torso. Come here, Diodorus." The man advanced until he was standing opposite his Lord. He showed no repulsion to the torso between them. "You are the most knowledgeable Death Eater in my employment in the subjects of physiology and anatomy. There is to be no outward signs that the heart has been removed. There is to be no sickening or wasting of the flesh. I want no marks on the flesh, and preferably none internally. The heart is to remain whole. You may begin."

Diodours Siculus looked at his Lord momentarily, before wordlessly crouching down and beginning his assessment of the corpse. The Dark Lord did not move back from the body. Diodorus Siculus opened the bag he held and took out several intricate and painful looking instruments, laying them out reverently in a predetermined order and began his work.

The heart would soon be packaged and addressed. That one would be sent to Widow Hestia Jones.

Lord Voldemort looked on.


End file.
